


Minimum Safe Distance

by entanglednow



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Angst, Blood, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-10
Updated: 2010-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm assuming you have some sort of kit. I'd rather not be forced to repair you with cheap vodka and duct tape."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minimum Safe Distance

  
It's not always immediately obvious how badly you're hurt if you can't see the wound. No matter how many times you've been shot or stabbed you can't always be one hundred percent certain exactly how much damage you've taken. Adrenaline is both your best friend and your worst enemy. A flesh wound can take your legs out from under you, or you can run up a flight of stairs feeling fine, only to collapse at the top because you'd run out of blood....

Michael's more than aware of that while making his way home, keeping a careful eye on how much blood he's losing. From what he can tell most of has run off his shirt. The occasional spatter and drip trailing behind him. He isn't going to die from blood loss. Which is something at least. Because, if nothing else, the sheer hell Sam and Fi would give him for passing out and dying on the street while they were both out of town - yeah, he could live without that.

It was supposed to be an easy job, nothing dangerous about it at all. Not even the remotest chance of having to drop out of a fifth floor window.

Michael mostly drags himself up the stairs to his loft, an ungainly slither up the metal that he convinces his body is to save energy, but in reality is just the fastest and least painful way to navigate them.

When he drips his way inside, the first thing he does is find a mirror, to try and get a good look at the damage on his back. But every attempt to turn and look is met by the horribly familiar tearing stretch that suggests he'll do more damage that way. The back of his shirt - what's left of it - is a mess of red, as is the back of his pants. So all he's absolutely sure of right now is that he's bleeding, a lot. Not really helpful.

He also knows that as badly as it hurts now, it's going to hurt a hell of a lot worse later if he doesn't deal with it. At the moment he can't even see if he has shards of window ledge in there.

Which is exactly when he hears the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. He turns around, leaving the mess of his back facing the wall and his gun under the fingers of his right hand.

He's not exactly thrilled to find Gilroy standing in his doorway.

"You left your door open, I'm inclined to take that as an invitation."

Michael pitches the fakest smile he has. "Gilroy, I wish you'd told me you were coming, I could have made sure I was out."

"That's terribly unkind." Gilroy, who obviously doesn't miss a thing, is watching the steady drip of red hitting the floor behind him.

Michael turns back to the mirror, because he doesn't think showing up at his house to kill him is Gilroy's style. Though he makes damn sure he can still see his reflection. The way he takes in the living space curiously but thoroughly, before he steps inside. Drifting towards him like he has all the time in the world. Michael only lets him get so close before he's forced to turn round again. It's hard to override self-preservation instincts, once they're fine-tuned.

"I see you've been having adventures." Gilroy has been carefully avoiding stepping in the blood trail he'd left.

Michael gets halfway back round before there's a faint pressure on his waist, Gilroy's thumbs, digging in just above his waistband, slowly coaxing him to turn. Any other time Michael would object, pointedly to both the invasion of personal space and the unnecessary touching. But there's a careful purpose in the way Gilroy is turning him. A dispassionate analysis to the way he's frowning at Michael's back.

"Lie down," Gilroy says eventually.

Michael stiffens at the unexpected command. The offer is obvious, and though Michael would like to protest on principle, due to Gilroy being a completely immoral murderer for hire, he's not exactly tripping over competent medical professionals. And he's pretty sure Gilroy doesn't want him dead at this very moment in time.

He can't quite just do as he's told though.

"Under any other circumstances I'd protest," Michael says.

"Under any other circumstances I wouldn't offer. Isn't it nice when circumstances come into perfect alignment."

Michael sighs, and very carefully unbuttons his shirt, separates both halves and manages to awkwardly find his way face down on the bed. It doesn't help at all. The slicing pain shifts and moves like it's trying to get comfortable too. This is the least enjoyable evening he can remember having in a while, and that includes the one last month, where he got tied up and repeatedly punched in the face.

He knows far too well the sensation of cloth dragging through and away from a fresh wound and it's never pleasant. He carefully glares at the pillow from an inch away and tries not to make a sound. Though when the last trailing edge pulls away - air whistles out through his teeth before he can stop it.

There's an unpleasant 'splat,' which sounds a lot like his blood-soaked shirt hitting the floor of his loft. Then there are warm fingers on his skin. Michael tenses, because whether he's torn all to hell or not, he can't quite help but be prepared for some sort of unpleasant and unexpected torture.

Gilroy ignores the tension like it's not even there, gently teasing at his skin to see what's still open.

Michael grumbles complaint.

"Don't be such a baby, it's just a scratch."

Michael turns his head round just far enough to catch a flash of Gilroy's hand, long, careful and very slowly going shiny red. He gets the feeling that they have conflicting ideas about what constitutes a 'scratch.' There's a huff and Gilroy's other hand is slithering into his pocket, in a way which Michael currently isn't in any position to stop - though he'd quite like to. His phone comes free with a tug and then Gilroy's leaning back. Michael recognises the tinny little click - and then his phone's dropped into his hand.

He swivels it round, and then winces at the picture.

"Jesus."

"Yes, not exactly pretty but it's mostly surface damage. I'm assuming you have some sort of kit. I'd rather not be forced to repair you with cheap vodka and duct tape."

"Duct tape does fine in a pinch," Michael says. Then lifts an arm and points. "It's over there."

The bed shifts and Michael flicks back to the too-bright picture of his back. There's a tear across his shoulder blade - but that one's fairly shallow, he can feel it. There's another, far messier one through the middle of his back, and a small but deep one lower down. It's all still full of blood and there's dirt all through the larger gash.

"Just a scratch, my ass."

Gilroy sits down again, dumps his first aid kit next to him.

"I'm going to guess you fell, caught something sharp-edged on the way down. It probably arrested your momentum and saved your life."

Michael's not entirely sure whether he also hit his head on the way down, because this is oddly surreal and dubious even for him. He eyes the contents of the first aid kit carefully, then can't help wondering whether Gilroy would stab him in the neck with the hypodermic or shoot him in the back of the head while he's helpless. He knows which one he'd go for.

"Oh don't be so melodramatic. It doesn't suit you." Gilroy has that unnerving ability to know what you're thinking and that's not a good trait to have in someone you'll probably have to kill one day. Maybe one day soon. "You really should be more careful on these little side jobs of yours. They're a waste of your talents."

Gilroy doesn't ask him if he wants anything for the pain - but then they both know he'd say no anyway.

Michael opens his mouth to say something about his free time being his own - and none of his business. But Gilroy chooses that exact moment to start cleaning the small, deep cut, all rawness and bite. Michael swears at him, lengthy, strangled, and mostly unintentional swearing. There's something about giving people permission to hurt you which screws with your perception of friend and foe.

"You have a filthy mouth," Gilroy sounds impressed and amused.

Michael could probably think up a calm and measured response to that. But there's now cold sweat crawling across the back of his neck and he doubts he'd be able to win anything from this conversation. It's probably not worth the effort.

"If you must behave like a boy scout in your spare time you really shouldn't do it when both your - hmm, lets call them friends shall we - when both your friends are out of town."

Michael makes a noise into the pillow but doesn't offer any information. He has a nasty suspicion that Gilroy knows too much about him already.

"Or at least remember to gut anyone between you and a viable escape route. Though since it's you, and you're a fine upstanding citizen you can gut them nicely if you like, and apologise afterwards."

"I don't think you're the best person to be giving tips on moral behaviour," Michael points out, and it would probably have a lot more force if it wasn't currently muffled by his pillow.

"Oh, I never said I didn't know what moral behaviour was. I just choose to ignore it in favour of hideous self-interest."

Michael catches Gilroy tearing a curved needle out its packaging out of the corner of his eye. He can't quite think of a reason to object. If someone had asked him to make a list of all the people he'd let stitch him up - Gilroy definitely wouldn't have been on it. He wouldn't even have been on a list of people that he'd want _watching_ him be stitched up. And yet, here he is, wrist deep in Michael's blood.

Michael's not exactly happy about it, but he never actually objected. He never said no. He probably should have said no. Of course then he'd probably be in the shower, losing more blood, and considering the veterinary surgeon he was passing familiar with.

"Why am I letting you do this?" Michael asks, because it's a question that's been gnawing at him for a while now. There's some people you don't let near you with sharp instruments when you're injured, or when you're vulnerable. People who were dangerous, people who'd tried to kill you, people you had a nagging suspicion might try to kill you in the future. Gilroy fit all three categories.

"I'm somewhat curious about that myself," Gilroy admits. "But I'm sure you can think of an appropriate way to thank me later."

Michael rolls his head the other way, which makes it hurt a little less. Though he still can't see much of what's going on behind him, which is more than a little worrying.

"I could leave a severed head on your doorstep. I feel like that's the sort of thank you gesture you'd appreciate," he guesses.

"I _would_ appreciate that as a gesture," Gilroy says and lays his hand flat on Michael's back, a reminder not to move while he's stitched back together again.

"Any particular head you had your eye on?" Michael asks. Because everything is a search for information after all, and you could learn a great deal about people from the sort of enemies they had, and the sort they wanted to get rid of.

"Careful, Michael, I might think you were flirting with me."

Under any other circumstances flirting would be one of the best ways to get information, or keep someone from killing you. But Michael suspects that if he tried to play that game with Gilroy, the man would eat him alive. So, irritated 'my back is all torn up and you're annoying' honesty it is.

"No," Michael protests, mostly still into the pillow. "You're imagining it, and I'm suffering from blood loss."

"Please, there isn't even half a pint here."

Michael lifts his head a fraction. "It's blood loss from earlier. I had to walk home." He makes himself stop talking.

"And where, pray tell, did you leave the rest of your blood?" Gilroy asks, sounding for all the world like it isn't a pressing question. Michael can still feel the careful slide and push of his fingers, and the occasional, more unpleasant stab of a needle.

"I don't remember."

There's a disappointed tutting that on anyone else would sound ridiculous. "Come now, Michael, at least be honest."

"Fine, I don't want to tell you," Michael says flatly.

"That's better. You know how I appreciate honesty."

Michael snorts into the pillow. "Appreciate it but don't believe in it as a lifestyle choice?"

"Touché."

Michael grimaces when Gilroy finds a particularly raw spot, skin slowly pulling together in protest.

"Forgive me if I make a shoddy job of this. Usually I'm making holes in people and not stitching them back together."

"I was willing to be duct-taped. You're the one that wanted to play doctor."

"Interesting phrasing there," Gilroy says smoothly. Michael can hear the smile in his voice.

"Not what I meant," Michael says firmly.

Gilroy laughs behind him, low, suggestive laughter that doesn't sound faked at all.

"Yes, this way's far more tedious, but it's never good to be out of practice."

Something snaps and the tugging sensation on Michael's skin stops. There's the slow, rustling sound of his first aid kit being raided again and the plastic cap on something snaps open.

What hits his skin next is cold and it's slippery, and the raw, angry pain in his back is very slowly going numb underneath it. He can't quite hold in the quiet sigh of relief. Because at the end of the day your body is the best weapon you have, and you only get one of them.

He relaxes as much as he dares.

It occurs to him, strangely late, that the attention Gilroy is paying the curve of his spine isn't really medical assistance any more. There's a sensation, a slow drag up and then down, that can't be described as anything other than _stroking_. Also, there's a hand curved round his waist in a way that feels indulgent rather than helpful. Both sensations had been mostly lost in the hazy relief of numbness, completely his fault, but Michael thinks he should probably put a stop to it.

"Gilroy?"

"Hmm?"

"I think you've finished."

Gilroy makes one of those little noises in his throat like he's thinking something obscene.

"Yes, I noticed, though apparently you didn't."

Michael can't turn his head round far enough to glare at him. He settles for general glaring into space and hopes that comes across.

Gilroy's hands do eventually slide away, leaving Michael's back bare to the prickling warmth of the air in the room, and he knows as soon as this stuff is dry that it's going to itch like hell. He feels the other man get up, then watches him drift into view. Gilroy gives the streaks of red and white on his shirt sleeve an irritated look.

"I'm sorry for the terrible inconvenience to your wardrobe," Michael drawls out.

"Oh, it's quite alright. I forgive you." Gilroy rolls his sleeves up until it's not visible any more.

Michael's tempted to ask why exactly he's so special. But this might be one of those times where he'll just go with it and ask for clarification later.

"Though next time you need assistance I hope that it's the sort that can be solved with firearms. I'm much better at that than impromptu needlework after all." Gilroy clearly hates to admit to not being good at everything. "Not that I don't appreciate the circumstances," he adds with a particularly focused once-over.

Michael is horribly tempted to roll his eyes at him.

"I'll keep that in mind."

It occurs to Michael, belatedly, that Gilroy showed up for a reason.

"What did you want, before, you must have come here for a reason?"

"Oh, I think it will keep," Gilroy says with a smile that doesn't bode well for anyone. "I think you've had more than enough excitement for one day."

Michael watches him leave, listens to him walk down the stairs.

Then listens some more just to make sure he's gone.

  



End file.
